Happy Bloody Christmas
by S. Faith
Summary: It's amazing sometimes how things line up ever so perfectly.
1. Chapter 1: Perfect Timing

**Happy Bloody Christmas**

By S. Faith, © 2015

Words: 12,450  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary: It's amazing sometimes how things line up ever so perfectly.  
Disclaimer: Isn't mine. Is all speculation.  
Notes: More fic inspired by the photos we've seen coming out of the _Bridget Jones's Baby_ location shooting.  
Originally this was all one story, but I split it into two parts for length.

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Perfect Timing**

 **11 December**

Happy bloody Christmas, indeed.

Surely it was the nadir of her life to be a.) pregnant, b.) single, and c.) dragging a Christmas tree through the snow that currently dusted Borough Market. She was determined, though. Determined to have a festive Christmas holiday. Determined to get through the rest of the day being an adult, and holding it together. Determined to be happy in herself, complete and satisfied, with or without a man in her life.

She considered the flights of stairs that awaited her, and she sighed, leaning against the wall. Would have been nice to have had a man to help just then, though. She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the long climb up with the tree in tow.

"We really need to stop meeting like this."

She opened her eyes to see none other than Mark Darcy himself, finding her yet again on her own front step. _Ask and ye shall receive?_ she thought. She couldn't help but wonder, though it seemed less likely that this was a chance encounter.

"Do you need a hand with that?" he continued, gesturing to the tree.

"I just need a moment and I'll be fine," she said, standing to her full height, placing her palms on her lower back to support herself as had become her habit. She had her pride, after all, despite her thoughts of a moment before.

He looked pointedly at her protruding stomach, then met her gaze again.

She huffed, then gestured towards the tree. There was pride, and then there was stubborn stupidity. "All right, then," she capitulated.

He took the end in his gloved hands and lifted it up. "This is heavier than it looks," he said. "I hope you haven't carried this far."

"Dragged," she corrected. "And not _too_ far. A block or two."

His gaze got even more intense. "You probably shouldn't have done that."

"Pfft," she said.

They didn't say anything more as he climbed up pulling the tree and she followed. By the time she reached the top she was totally out of breath. She was quite grateful, actually, that he had turned up, and not only for hauling her tree upstairs. Talking to him in person would be easier than a phone call.

"Your key, Bridget."

"Right. Sorry."

She made her way around the prickly tree and to the door, slipping in the key.

"You're looking very well," he murmured.

She looked up at him. "Thank you," she said, then opened the door and gestured for him to go in first.

"Where do you want this?" He dragged it up and into the flat proper.

"Over there," she said. "By the fireplace."

"Ah, right," he said, as he spotted the tree stand. He turned the tree upright and put it into place. It became immediate apparent to even her that the tree was a bit too large for the space allotted. She saw him smile, then got it into the tree stand and managed to push it closer to the wall.

"I could get a scissors and…" She trailed off, watching him further adjust it.

He stepped back to look at it. "I think it'll be okay. Just… be careful if you use the fireplace."

She nodded, then reiterated, "Okay, thanks." He turned to her, just as she started to doff her coat, a task that was causing her increasing difficulty with each passing day.

He immediately moved forward to help her out of her coat, picking up the collar and guiding it down her arms.

"Thanks again," she said, turning to face him again.

"My pleasure." His eyes fixed to her belly once more. "When's…" He cleared his throat. "When's the baby due, again?"

She smiled half-heartedly. "I'm expecting a very exciting Christmas," she said.

"Ah," he said. He put his hands in his pockets, tell-tale sign he was a little nervous. "I didn't just happen to drop by," he said, meeting her gaze.

"Oh?" she asked.

"I—"

"Hold on. Sorry. I really need to sit down."

"Of course," he said. "Allow me to—"

She dropped down onto her couch. "Thanks," she said with a smile. "I'm okay."

"May I?" he asked, then indicated the seat beside her. It seemed a ludicrously formal gesture from a man who had seen her naked on multiple occasions. Something was making him more than just a little nervous.

 _Well, the more the merrier, I guess_ , she thought.

"Of course," she said. "Take off your coat, if you like." He did as she suggested, then sat beside her. "So what's going on?" she asked.

"I… I split up with her today."

Bridget did not need to ask who he meant by 'her'. "Oh, I'm sorry."

He shook his head, looking over to the tree, as bare, oversized, and raggedy as it was. "Don't be," he said. "It took me longer than it should have to realise that I was following the same path I had with Natasha. Ending it was… more of a mercy killing than anything."

She smiled in understanding. "It's still not easy to do," he said.

"Easier than this," he said, then looked to her again with that familiar intense gaze, clearing his throat. "I'm not going to beat around the bush. Despite everything we've been through—or perhaps because of it—and despite current complications, I still love you, always will. I want you back, Bridget. I want to adopt your child."

She could not find any words, was suddenly very glad that she was sitting down, because she may well have fainted.

Mark continued, "I know that there's… the baby's father to consider. But if you would just please—"

She laughed, short and sharp, then clamped a hand over her own mouth.

He looked wounded by it, and she felt instantly terrible.

"Sorry, Mark. Sorry. I'm not laughing at the _idea_ ," she said. "You just… you have impeccable timing."

Now he looked confused.

"We've broken up, too," she said. "I mean, do you really think I'd've gone out to buy a tree on my own in this state?"

"He didn't even carry it back for you?" Mark said, indignant.

"I told him I could manage it," she said, "and he believed me."

"Perhaps you were right to chuck him."

She allowed him the misapprehension. "Of course, he might have been in shock." He nodded; she realised he didn't take the bait, so she had to clarify. "Not from breaking up," she went on. "From learning he's _not_ about to be a father."

Again Mark was visibly confused. "He's… not?" He stared at her pregnant belly.

"No," she said. "Back to that impeccable timing thing. I was going to ring you up once I was home. He's not going to be a father. You are."

He met her eyes, then looked to her belly, then to her eyes again. "I… I don't understand how that's possible."

"Not only possible, but tangibly— _ugh_ —true," she said, just as the baby chose to kick her bladder. "Sorry. Must use the toilet."

"Did—are you—do you need a hand up?"

She fought the urge to be contrary, and instead said, "Thank you, yes."

He lent a supporting arm as they walked across the flat. "So let's rewind a moment," he said. " _I_ am the baby's father."

"I just learnt while we were out at the market. I got a call on my mobile."

"But how? After years of intense trying, fertility treatments… one night of unbridled passion did the trick?"

"Apparently," she said. "Seems improbable, but it's true."

"But… how could the test have been so wrong?"

"They didn't explain why they retested it, but they did, and it was negative," she said. "If it wasn't him, it has to be you, Mark."

He ran his hand over his face. "Oh my God," he said, very quietly to himself. She took the opportunity to leave his side and close the loo door for privacy.

When she emerged back into the flat, she thought for a moment that he had left altogether, and she felt her shoulders slump. The news had been too much for him, and he had needed time to think… but these thoughts stopped almost as soon as they'd started, as the sound of movement in her bedroom indicated he was in there.

She hovered at the bedroom door, watching him working to clear the floor of clothing and other detritus that she had been too tired to clean up herself—not to mention that she was now too wide and too top-heavy to safely crouch and get up again. "What are you doing?"

"Tidying up for you," he said.

"Why?"

He looked up at her as he stood there, arms full of her things. "What do you mean, 'why'?" he asked, truly perplexed. "Why wouldn't I want to make up for all of the time during your pregnancy that I've missed? Tidying up, making sure you're comfortable…"

She felt the tears plop unexpectedly onto her cheeks at about the same time he dropped everything he'd picked up to go over to her.

"Are you all right?" he asked, leading her to sit down again, taking her hands solicitously in his.

She nodded. "Just feeling a bit overwhelmed—and hormones, probably." She sniffed. "So I guess… you're okay with the news?"

He blinked a few times. "Oh, Bridget, I'm more than okay with it," he said. Then he smiled. "I guess I'm a little shocked. But shocked in the best possible way. I thought I'd never be a father."

She smiled, too. "I'm glad to hear it." She squeezed his hands. "I was a bit anxious about telling you," she admitted. "I mean, thinking of the possible complications to your relationship."

"If I hadn't already broken it off, I would have done for this," he said. "For _you_." He stared at where their hands were joined. "I actually broke it off a week ago," he said sheepishly. "I just didn't know what to say, so I kept putting it off."

"What you said before was perfectly nice," she said. "Even if I did laugh. Sorry about that." She sighed. "You know, I still love you, too."

"Right, yes, that's good." He drew one of her hands up to place a kiss on the back of it. "On the same page there. More important than that, though, is that I'm still _in_ love with you."

"Even better," she said with a matter-of-fact nod. "Still on the same page, then."

He released her hands then reached to put his arms around her, kissing her cheek before holding her close to him; it was a bit more difficult than usual due to her girth.

"In the past at this point, getting back together," she said, half-joking, "we would have fallen upon one another like rabbits."

He whispered close to her ear, "I'm game if you are."

She giggled a little, brought her arms up around him, playfully smacking his shoulder. "Not feeling very… I don't know, _sexy_ ," she admitted. "Less like Venus de Milo, more like the Venus of Willendorf."

His only response was to place a kiss against her throat, a tender peck before an open-mouthed one, moving the kiss up to bite and tease at her earlobe. His old magic was as strong as ever, and her eyes closed with the pleasure of it. "Still Venus," he murmured. "And who knows, they say that sex can help speed labour along. Would certainly help to free up your Christmas holiday a bit more."

She was going to protest further, but as he cupped a breast with his hand, kissed her properly on the mouth, it died in her throat.

She never would've thought that Mark was the sort of man who would want to have sex with a woman as fully pregnant as she was, but he did. In actual fact, he seemed exceedingly eager… though it could have been simply that they hadn't slept together since the conception of their child.

She certainly had missed him.

As they fought to regain their respective breaths afterward, she laid on her side and he stretched out beside her, facing her; she was inclined, as usual, to cover herself up, but he stopped her from doing so, his hand upon her stomach, rising and falling slightly with every breath she took.

"What are you doing?" she asked, looking over to him.

"Waiting for a kick."

She chuckled. "He's probably traumatised after all of that rocking about."

It was Mark's turn to look traumatised.

"I'm teasing you, silly," she said. She put her hand atop his own to pat it, then leaned over to kiss him quickly on the lips.

As she did, the baby delivered a kick precisely to where Mark's hand was. He gasped and withdrew his hand as if her stomach had just turned white-hot. "A kick," he said.

"Yes, I know," she said, with a chuckle. "I felt it, too."

"It's amazing," he said, then met her gaze again. "It's _real_."

"Very much so," she said, "as my poor bladder will tell you."

"Poor darling," he said.

"It's all your fault," she teased.

Having felt the kick he'd hoped to feel, he drew the duvet over them, then stroked her hair, brushing it away from her face. "If there's anything at all that I can do to make you more comfortable," he said, "you only have to ask."

She smiled lopsidedly. She had a bare tree out there and no earthly desire to decorate it—but she'd rather that he was in bed beside her. She was tired, but she was content. "Aside from the impossible obvious," she said. "If I think of anything, you'll be the first to know."

He smiled. "Okay," he said.

After so many nights of pregnancy-induced insomnia, this utter feeling of bliss and comfort meant she wasn't going to be able to stay awake much longer. Her eyes closed. She felt his fingers stroking her face again.

"I have to lie on this side," she said. He seemed to understand what she meant by this (she would have been surprised if he had not); she wanted to lie spooned up with him, but she couldn't turn over. Quietly he sat up then climbed gingerly to the other side of the bed, covering them up as he settled in behind her. He draped his arm across her, holding her stomach protectively, as he placed a kiss on the crown of her head.

Within moments, she was deeply asleep.

 **12 Dec**

What a change of luck. What an incredible turn of circumstances.

Just a week earlier, Mark Darcy had been trapped in a relationship with a woman he didn't love, if what he'd had with her could even be defined with a word as loaded as 'relationship'. The old saying was dead right: that you don't know what you have until you've lost it. Their conversations of late had made him uncomfortable; she had begun to express interest in a family. After everything Mark had gone through with Bridget, he didn't quite know how to tell her that he was unwilling to go through that with anyone else, especially not with someone he didn't love, someone with whom he wasn't _in_ love. More to the point, he didn't want to have a family with anyone but Bridget.

She'd been out of town, so he hadn't seen her in a week. They had planned for lunch upon her return. He had planned what he was going to say. And in the end, he had abandoned it all with a simple, "I can't do this. I don't love you. I'm sorry."

She had merely stared at him a moment or two before pursing her lips and nodding. "Not surprised," she'd said. "Disappointed, but not surprised. I mean, I knew from the start that you were still in love with someone else. I was pretty sure I knew who she was… and then that day on the street with you when I met her, and I was certain."

It had surprised him greatly to hear this.

She'd gone on: "You're always so calm, cool, and collected. But not that day. No, I'm not an idiot. But I _am_ a fool for thinking you were over her."

So with that, it had been over. Mark had felt free, but anxious. He'd wanted to go directly to Bridget, but he'd known it wasn't going to be as simple as that. So he'd waited, contemplated, considered his options.

And then yesterday had happened. Resolution had turned out to be simpler than he'd ever imagined; the roadblocks had miraculously cleared on their own. No longer did he have to navigate around respective other partners, nor did he have to concern himself with the legalities of adoption. He woke that morning in Bridget's bed, with her warm body still spooned against him, his hand splayed on her belly again.

He felt movement under his palm—the baby shifting—and a thrill went through him again. His baby, his _child_. His own flesh and blood. When he'd lost all hope of the possibility of having a family, particularly with Bridget, this miracle had occurred. He couldn't have been more grateful.

He ran his fingers over the soft skin of her rounded belly, kissed her temple softly. She sighed in her sleep. Wonderful, blissful peace of the morning of the first of many more days back together with her. He closed his eyes and sighed, too.

It was then that a low howl shattered the serenity of the morning, as she folded in pain around the hand that had rested upon her. It brought him to instant wakefulness, and he sat upright (or as upright as he could).

"Bridget! What's wrong?" he asked. In his panic, the most obvious answer did not occur.

"Ohgoddddd," she groaned. "Oh, fuck. It's started. Oh. Fuck." He was about to ask what she meant, but then she added in a rough voice, "Waters. Just. Broke."

Mark froze. He had helped to broker peace deals, had arranged for hostage exchanges, but here, now… he had no idea what to do. So he asked her.

She was breathing hard, hair suddenly damp with sweat, but at least the wave of pain seemed to have subsided. "Need to get to hospital," she said, then laughed with as much mirth as she could muster. "Never packed my hospital bag. Kept putting it off. Of course I did."

He chuckled despite the situation. He bent and kissed her forehead, tried to remain calm, since she was not herself panicking. "Do I need to call an ambulance?"

She shook her head, then turned her blue eyes to him. "It can be hours between labour starts and delivery for a first child. Should be fine."

"Did you do classes?"

She nodded, clenching her jaw with another, though clearly less intense, wave of pain. "Have to call Shaz."

"Why?"

"Because my partner in birthing class… well. We broke up. Awkward for him to be there. Shaz has done this before."

"I could do it."

"Much as I'd love that," she said with a faint smile, "it really is about more than just breathing."

To his surprise, she rose from the bed, slipped on her robe, and dialled her mobile. As she talked to Shaz, she began to gather up things for her travel bag. He could only stand and stare mutely. It was like nothing had happened at all.

"No, you only need to meet me at the hospital," she said into the mobile. "I've got a ride sorted." She turned and winked at Mark, listening to Shaz talk. "Nope, not him. Guess again. Oh, wait," she said, stopped what she was doing, then sat on the bed. Her face contorted into a grimace of pain; she strained not to make a sound. He rushed to her side; she thrust the phone at him to explain.

"Hello, Sharon," Mark said.

There was a beat, clearly stunned silence, before she spoke. "Who is that?" she asked warily.

"Who else calls you 'Sharon'?" Mark said with a smile, then began to massage Bridget's lower back as she bent over as far as she could.

"Well, fuck _me_ ," she said, which made him laugh. "I can't keep things straight anymore. What's going on?"

"Will explain later," he said. "We'll be leaving soon."

"Okay," she said. "See ya there. Bye."

He disconnected the call, then turned back to her. She was taking deep breaths again; the pain had passed. "Come on, darling," he murmured softly. "Let's get dressed now, while you're not doubled over in pain."

She sat up again, nodding, taking in a deep breath, then getting to her feet again.

He helped to dress her, then dressed himself in his slightly wrinkled clothes from the day before. He caught her smirking at him, because she knew what he was thinking: he hadn't folded his underpants, let alone his clothing.

"Clearly, standards have fallen," he teased, smoothing down his shirt, then tucking the tails into his trousers and zipping them up. "All right. Are we all set?"

She held up a finger, clenched her teeth through another labour pain, took in a deep breath, and then rose to her feet. "Let's do this."

… … …

"Hasn't been the greatest 'morning after', has it?"

Mark couldn't help chuckling. Bridget was in the bed, sleeping, resting after the birth. The sun had long since set; Mark and Sharon sat in chairs next to the bed; in quiet tones, he had explained everything that had happened over the past couple of days for each of them, the revelation of the baby's true paternity, and last night's reunion.

"I beg to differ," Mark said. "Regaining the love of my life and a baby, to boot… not a bad day's work."

Sharon smiled. She looked tired, too, after all of the in-theatre coaching she'd done.

"I'm really glad it went well in there," Mark said.

"Smooth as silk. Just too bad it couldn't have been you," she said.

 _Maybe next time_ , he thought.

"Not that you… well, you know what I mean," Sharon added.

"I do. I appreciate you could be there for her. For us." He then turned to Bridget, brushing her hair from her face.

"This is probably the most sleep she's had in some time," Sharon said; he reminded himself that she had small ones of her own now. "And probably the most she'll have in some time to come."

The door to the room swung slowly open to reveal one of the nurses that had attended to Bridget before she'd gone to sleep—a young, blond, exceedingly efficient young man called Gareth—bearing a tiny wrapped bundle. Mark was instantly on his feet.

His son.

"You're the baby's father?" Gareth asked.

Mark nodded.

Gareth offered him the bundle. "Say hello to your little boy."

He stared at the baby. "I—I'm not sure I…" he stammered. "I don't know how…"

"It's as easy as anything," Gareth said. "Hold out your elbow… yes, that's good." He placed the baby into Mark's arms; he cradled the boy instantly, naturally. "There you are. Perfect."

Mark raised his other hand to pull the blanket back; the tiny, serenely sleeping face, the wisp of dark hair at the crown, the tiny bow of a mouth. Mark felt unexpectedly emotional… though perhaps not unsurprisingly so. "He's… beautiful."

He noticed then that Sharon was at his side. "He is, isn't he?"

Mark nodded.

"So what's his name?" Sharon asked.

"I… I don't know," Mark said sheepishly. "We didn't get a chance to talk about it."

Sharon chuckled quietly, waggling her brows. "I don't suppose you did."

The nurse had commenced to checking on Bridget, who, Mark could tell, was stirring to wakefulness. He turned slowly with the baby in his arms. Blearily she blinked, and smiled at them. Mark went to sit on the bed beside her; she raised the head to better see them.

"So what were you thinking of calling him?" Mark asked quietly.

"Hadn't decided," she said. "Just like I hadn't packed my bag. I thought I had some time yet."

Mark laughed a little. "Was hoping you hadn't absolutely decided with…" He trailed off.

"I didn't like his suggestions. Boring," Bridget said. Impishly, she added, "I did have a few ideas."

"Don't you dare say 'River'," he joked, and she laughed too. Theoretical scenarios all fell to the wayside in the face of an actual baby.

"Actually, now he's a Darcy, I was thinking Fitzwilliam," she said. His eyes flashed to her; she grinned at him. "What? It's classic and literary, and you never wanted a junior, anyway. And I could go down in the history books as the woman who brought a real Fitzwilliam Darcy into the world." Behind him, Mark could hear Sharon suppressing laughter.

"Sorry to interrupt the moment," said the nurse, who Mark forgot was still there, "but I'm here to give the new mum a little refresher on breastfeeding. Sir, if you'll give your wife the baby… great. Now, normally you'll have on a bra with nursing panels, but you'll need here to lift yourself up a little, like this…"

As this instruction went on, as Gareth reached to properly position the baby and the breast, Mark had to fight the urge to grab the baby and dash away; he didn't like the thought of another man having _anything_ to do with her breasts, but it was the nurse's job, after all. No good could come from being irrational.

Sharon patted Mark's shoulder, as if knowing exactly what he was thinking.

The little one latched on and began to suckle. He saw tears well in her eyes, felt tears in his own. "There you are," said Gareth. Grinning, he stood up straight. "I'll be back shortly with the crib for little River, Fitzwilliam, or whatever you decide to call him." Gareth turned to Mark. "That chair reclines, if you'd like to stay, too."

Mark nodded. "I'd very much like that."

"I'll bring blankets and a pillow."

When Gareth left, Sharon moved in close. "Look at him go," she said, then affectionately smoothed down Bridget's hair. "Champion drinker, just like his mum." She chuckled, and he found himself chuckling, too. "I should go," Sharon said. "The fam's expecting me back."

Bridget nodded. "Thank you for everything today, Shaz. Means the world to us."

"Anytime," she said. "Though I doubt you'll need me for this duty again." She looked to Mark. "Good to, er, have you back."

"Good to be back."

To his surprise, she gave him a tight hug. "Congratulations," she said. Sharon then bent to give Bridget a quick hug too. "Talk to you soon."

She then left them, beaming a smile as she did.

Mark sat with Bridget again on the bed. The little one had apparently finished eating and was puckering his lips; Bridget reached to pull her nightgown closed again, but the front of it soon dampened with milk. "Oh dear," she said. "I suppose it will stop on its own. Ohh." A look of dawning crossed her face. "Now I understand nursing pads."

He smiled, stroking her arm, then brushing his fingers over the baby's forehead. She shifted a bit, and he was able to sit beside her, put his arm around her, allow him to hold her as she held the baby.

"By the way, I rang up your mum," he said. "She was surprised to hear from me, which was to my benefit, as she was quiet long enough to allow me to tell her you'd gone into labour. They were going to caravan down this way as we speak. I expect they'll be here soon to see you."

Bridget asked, "Did you tell her how you'd come to be involved?"

"Yes," he said. "Which is how she stayed quiet long enough."

Bridget began to laugh, then winced in pain. "Stitches."

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," he said.

She nodded. "It's all right." She looked down to their baby again; he'd gone back to sleep. "So sweet and quiet," she murmured. "We probably should think of a name, though, before we're discharged."

"It's a big decision," he said. "You really didn't think of anything? Your friends didn't have any suggestions? Sharon?"

"Shaz's ideas were bollocks," said Bridget. "And anyway, she called her son 'Milo'." After a moment, she asked, "Haven't you ever thought what you might want to name your son?"

"Yes," he said plainly. "After my father, or yours, but now that I've seen him… neither one seems quite right. He's his own person, sure to have his own personality. He should have his own name."

This coming from him clearly surprised Bridget in a good way. "As long as you're not about to suggest 'Horatio'… I agree."

"'Horatio Darcy' doesn't exactly roll off the tongue," Mark said with a little laugh. "'Horatio River Darcy' even less so." He breathed in deeply, then exhaled. "I've been thinking about your 'Fitzwilliam' suggestion."

"What, _really_?"

"Yes, and no." He paused to kiss her on the hair at her temple. "What do you think of just 'William'?" She didn't say anything, so he added, "It may be a bit more on the ordinary side than you were thinking, but…" He trailed off.

"Hmm," she said. She traced a finger over the baby's fine brow. "William," she cooed to him. The baby, as if in response, sighed as if in approval. "Oh God, did you hear that?" she asked, turning to look at Mark, her eyes wide. He had. "Well, then," she said, then sniffed. "If it's good enough for Princess Diana, it's good enough for me."

Mark chuckled, kissing her temple again. "William Darcy it is, then."

"No," she said. "William _Mark_ Darcy."

"Hmm," he said. "If you insist." He laughed lightly again. "Though that does make his monogram the equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction."

"Well, his nappies will surely qualify as such." This made Mark laugh aloud. She laughed too, uttering a little 'ow' again; he suspected this would be happening a lot until she healed.

Gareth returned with the crib and the blankets and pillow. Mark looked up to him as he did; Gareth was smiling. "Everyone's looking cosy," he said, wheeling the crib into place between the bed and the reclining chair. He handed a stack of round things to Bridget. "Meant to bring these before. Sorry."

"It's okay, better late than never." She took one and slipped it into her robe, and only then did Mark realise what it was.

"Baby doing all right? Fed all right?"

"Mm-hmm," she said.

"Didn't need burping?"

"Oh! I don't know," she said, sounding a little panicked. "How can you tell?"

"You'd know," Gareth said genially. "He'd cry or be very fussy."

"Oh," she said. He knew what the tone of her voice meant. The 'I'm going to be a rubbish mum who leaves her baby in a shop' voice.

To her, he whispered, "You can't know everything at once, darling. Don't worry. And I'll help."

"I'm glad." It didn't matter that he didn't have the slightest idea of what he was doing, either, but she seemed comforted. "You'll be a great dad."

"Now you're all set up, and baby's fed, I'll show in your visitors. They can only come in two at a time."

"Two at a time? How many are waiting?"

Gareth smiled. "You seem to be a popular new mum," he said, before leaving.

Within a few minutes, Bridget's mother came in. Pam Jones looked at the two of them, then clapped her hands approvingly. "Bridget, _darling_! Mark! What a beautiful little family you make. I _couldn't_ be happier."

Coming in directly behind was her father. One look at the three of them on the bed, and Mark saw a surprising sight: Colin Jones began to cry. He held up a pocket square to daub at his face. "I'm overwhelmed, poppet. Overwhelmed."

"Here, this is for the baby," Pam said, handing a beribboned stuffed rabbit to Bridget; it had the look of an old-fashioned toy, with pale brown 'fur' and dark black eyes.

Bridget accepted it with her free hand, turning it over, looking at it, stroking the fabric with her thumb; her eyes went glossy, as if she might cry. She then smiled and looked to her mother again. "Velveteen," she said.

"Yes," said Pam, with a very emotional-looking smile. He sensed there was something more going on than what was apparent on the surface, and made a note to ask about it later. For now, though, Mark rose and, with a sniff to compose herself, Pam wasted no time taking his place on the bed beside her daughter, but not before giving Mark a hug. Mark turned to Colin, holding his hand out for a shake, but Colin hugged him, too.

"Congratulations," he said. "Though I understand this is news to you, as well?"

Mark nodded. "I'm feeling a little overwhelmed, too," he said, "but in the best possible way. Looking forward to the challenge."

"Come and look at this baby, Colin!" said Pam in her most fluttery voice. "He's absolutely gorgeous! Perfect little nose, and my goodness, Mark, he's got your chin." Colin moved close to his wife, then bent to kiss his daughter on the cheek.

"My goodness, he _is_ perfect," said Colin. "And I don't think I'm being biased."

"Of course not," said Bridget. She was crying, but he suspected they were tears of happiness. Mark went for the tissues, which she took gratefully with her free hand, mopping at her tears, blowing her nose. Mark picked up the small waste bin and she tossed the used tissue inside.

"Mum?" asked Bridget. "Would you like to hold him?"

"Oh!" she said. "May I? I've washed and sanitised my hands…"

Bridget knew, as Mark did, that Pam had wanted to hold the baby the moment she'd come in. "Of course, Mum," she said.

Pam stood and picked the baby up, cradling him, cooing at him. "So tell, me, Bridget, Mark, what are you going to call this darling little boy?"

Mark looked to her just as she looked to him. He nodded.

"William," said Bridget. "William Mark."

" _William Mark!_ " she repeated, touching the baby's nose gently with a fingertip. "I like it. Has _such_ a nice ring to it." Pam looked to Mark. "When on earth did you decide on it?"

"Actually," Mark said, "about ten minutes ago. That's when we really got to meet him for the first time. It suits him."

"Very good name," said Colin. "It does suit him."

At that moment, the door swung open. "I'm so sorry." It was Elaine Darcy. "I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to see this grandchild for myself." Her eyes fixed on Pam. "Oh, let me see him," she said, her eyes welling with tears. "Oh, he's got the Darcy chin. No mistaking that."

"Here, Elaine, hold him."

Mark sat beside Bridget again, taking her hand, then kissing the back. Even though he was overwhelmed in the best possible way with the idea of being back with Bridget, being a new father, one thing kept swirling through his head: how Gareth the nurse had erroneously referred to Bridget. He couldn't get it out of his mind.

He wanted to call her 'wife', and mean it.


	2. Chapter 2: Oh, Baby

**Happy Bloody Christmas**

By S. Faith, © 2015

Words: 12,450  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Oh, Baby**

 **13 Dec**

There was a moment upon waking when Bridget had no idea where she was—but then the lights from the monitors, the sounds from the staff doing the night rounds, and the ache from childbirth reminded her. She pushed herself up a little bit to try to see better, saw the baby asleep in the crib, saw Mark asleep, and the pain seemed less important. She smiled. The baby—little William. Now he was here, even if he was a couple of weeks too early.

She was actually glad that her most recent ex (and the almost-father of her child) had come to visit; she felt like it helped to give them both a sort of closure on the whole thing, and it allowed him to see that Mark would truly be there for her and the baby.

The door of the room had swung open—she realised that this is what had awakened her—and now the shift nurse came in, a young woman with a black ponytail at the nape of her neck. She smiled and looked at the chart, whispered, "Everything all right?"

Bridget could see that her name tag read KATH. She nodded in response, then quietly said, "Yes."

"Are you in pain?" Kath asked.

"I'd be surprised if I weren't," she said.

"I've got something for you. What we gave you earlier has probably worn off."

"Oh, yes _please_."

After Bridget downed it with several glugs of water, she thought to ask if it was going to be all right for breastfeeding. Kath smiled. "It's fine," she said.

She took Bridget's vitals, made a note on the chart, then turned to the crib, to the baby. "Oh, William," she said upon viewing William's chart. "What a lovely choice."

"Thank you," Bridget said.

Kath then pointed to where Mark slept, mouthed "Father?"

Bridget nodded.

Kath smiled, then mouthed the word, "Cute."

Bridget mouthed back, "I know."

Kath continued on with checking the baby, then concluded by making a few notes on the chart. "Everything's looking great, Ms Jones. Be in to check on you again in a few hours. Get some more rest."

With that Kath left; Bridget laid back down on the pillow, closed her eyes, but found it difficult to calm her mind, despite the pain beginning to subside a little. Something began to beep in another, nearby room.

A quiet voice spoke. Mark's. "Not sure how they expect you to rest under these circumstances."

She sighed. "I know. At least the baby's quiet."

"True," he said. "For now." He sat up. "Wish the bed were a little larger. I'd come and keep you company."

"Come and keep me company anyway," she said.

As he climbed in and spooned up behind her, she could only muse that Kath or another nurse would find it scandalous when she came in to check again. She didn't care. She liked having his warmth there. She felt sleepier already.

As it turned out, there was no nurse's visit again while she slept, not that she recalled; when she woke again next it was morning, though still early. The sky was just lightening outside. Mark had somehow slipped from the bed without her waking. He was in the chair again, watching over the baby, who was moving his arms and legs around. Then his gaze lifted to meet hers. "Morning," he said quietly.

"Morning," she said in return. "Is he awake?"

He nodded. "I expect he'll need feeding."

"Oh, God, do you think it's been too long?"

"I don't think so," Mark said. "He'd cry, wouldn't he?"

Just then, that was exactly what he began to do. Bridget shifted, sat up, pushed herself to the end of the bed; as she did, Mark stood, picked up the baby with a confidence that made her proud, and handed him to her. She pushed her nightgown aside—hospital issue, opened in the front—and brought William up, guiding the nipple to his mouth. He began to suckle instantly. She felt ridiculously proud.

"Look at you," said Mark. "You're a pro already."

She blushed as she smiled, then frowned. "I wonder if his nappy needs changing."

"A nurse came in. Checked and changed him, showed me what to do."

"Oh, I didn't hear a thing."

"I felt it best to let you sleep. She agreed."

"Did she catch you…?"

"Yes," he said, not looking at all regretful. "She didn't seem bothered by it."

William fed away; she met his gaze and shared a long, intimate look.

"I meant to ask yesterday," he said quietly. "About the present from your mum."

She thought back to the little stuffed rabbit, to that long ago conversation with her mother, and she smiled. "What about it?"

"Well, I've never seen anyone get so misty over a new toy. I figured there must be something more there." He paused. "I was curious, if you don't mind saying."

"It's no big secret," she said. "Right before we got back together, and I mean after the first time we split up, I was at my wit's end, and in a moment of desperation, I came totally clean with my mum… and she was actually really helpful. She mentioned _The Velveteen Rabbit_ , how I'd loved it as a child. How when you love something more than anything else, it doesn't matter if it's gone all saggy or its fur is all loved off, it's still the most beautiful thing in the world to you." Mark ran his hand back over his hair; she wondered if he, too, was thinking of the thinning spot on the top of his head, one upon which she had been fond of placing a tender kiss. "She pointed out how that's how it is when people really love each other, too. She reminded me how important it was to be brave, and to be Real, and to tell you how I really felt."

His smile was tender, verging on emotional. "So I have your mum to thank for our time together," he said quietly.

"Most of it, yes," she said; the minor splits much later had resolved themselves, and William could take the credit for bringing them together again for good.

"Remind me to thank her profusely at the soonest possibility." He took in a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice had gone back to normal, and on a totally different subject: "So, Bridget. I don't recall seeing anything set up in your flat for William to sleep in."

She understood the change in tone because she knew him so well. He was trying to rein in the emotions he was feeling by going completely practical. "It was on backorder," she said sheepishly. "I expected it by now."

"Pushchair?" he asked. "Nappies?"

She pursed her lips. 'Practical' was becoming 'critical'. On the heels of not having her bag ready, could the honeymoon phase of their reunion already be over because she hadn't adequately planned and prepared in his eyes? "No, I don't have them yet," she said, a bit shirtily. "I'd only just began maternity leave, and William _was_ early."

Mark looked at her, then smiled, then burst out with a little laugh. "You don't have to look like that," he said. "I just wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help you."

"Oh." She looked down to William, who seemed to have finished, and who had milk dribbling down his chin. She looked around for something to clean him up. Mark anticipated this, and reached for a towel that was next to the crib. William was fussing more than he had before, so she took it as a cue that he needed burping. She put the towel on her shoulder, then held him up to pat his tiny back gently until she heard the sound of the smallest, softest burp she'd ever heard.

Cradling William in her arms again, she continued her train of thought. "I'm sorry, Mark. I shouldn't have assumed the worst," she said quietly, then looked to Mark at last. She was surprised at his expression. He had tears in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

Mark shook his head. "Nothing's wrong," he said. "Everything's right. You're going to be a wonderful mum. You're already wonderful. A natural." He sniffed. "This brings me back to the original offer. Whether there's anything I can do. And I have an idea."

She cocked a brow. "Oh?"

"Yes," he said. "It's sensible, logical, and right."

"And what is this idea?"

He hesitated. "Move in with me."

Her brows went up.

"More than that," he said. "Marry me."

She blinked in surprise. "This is awfully sudden."

"Not really," he asked. "I'd proposed before. I have never withdrawn that offer." She thought of the awful day she'd returned the ring to him. "If I'd known that he was mine, I would have renewed it a lot sooner. Like I said… I haven't stopped loving you, darling. And I want to be a part of William's life as soon as possible. There's no reason for you to do it all on your own."

She felt suddenly emotional, and couldn't find the words to respond.

"If you say yes, I'll move heaven and earth to bring you and the baby home as soon as possible. And, of course, the crib in the short term. Plus," he added softly, smiling a little, "carrying a pushchair up those stairs… I can tell you from experience that it's not an easy task." She recalled him hauling Magda's little ones (and the pushchair) up to the flat. He cleared his throat. "And if not… well, I hope you don't mind me staying there with you for a while." He raised his eyes to her again; for a moment she was transported back in time to the first time she'd seen that look from him: guileless eyes, open expression, regarding her intently, at her birthday feast so many years ago.

"It's overwhelming," she said. "The thought of _moving_ on top of everything else…"

"Sorry. You're right. I'll pack some things and stay with you. If you want me to."

She chuckled. "Of course I do," she said. "And I will move in with you eventually, just because that house… while it's too white and polished, it's got real potential." She looked adoringly at William. "Besides, surely it would be odd for your wife not to live with you." Then she looked back to him.

It was Mark's turn to be rendered silent in his surprise, but then he smiled. "True," he said. "Baby, engagement, cohabitation, marriage… I suppose as long as we tick all of the boxes, the order hardly matters anymore, does it?"

 **The following week**

Mark supposed that eventually the tree might get decorated; this, he mused as he paced the sitting room in a shirt that he was sure must have looked like it had sat crumpled in the corner of a suitcase for too long. It had not, of course; he had napped when the opportunity had presented itself that morning. He also needed a shave, but hadn't taken the opportunity yet to do so that day.

He didn't care.

He walked with William in his arm, helping to calm him after an epic cry. Bridget was in the shower at precisely the wrong time for his demands to be fed. He heard her call out to the baby, "I'll be _right_ there, I promise!"

Mark heard the water turn off, uttering a slight groan as she stepped out, then, after a few minutes, she came out of the bathroom in a dressing gown, her hair wrapped in a towel on her head. "Oh, that felt good," she said, then paused, looking at the two of them with a crooked grin.

"What?" he asked.

"You're a mess… and more handsome then ever."

He wasn't sure if she was taking the piss.

"I'm serious," she said, probably at his sceptical expression. "You standing there, smiling, holding him… it's lovely."

He smiled, grateful again for the way fate had cleared the path for them to have their happy ever after, or so he dearly hoped. " _You're_ lovely," Mark said. "And he's hungry."

She smiled back. "The shower is all yours."

"The glamour of parenthood," he said, passing the baby to her; William was clearly happy to hear his mother's voice, his little fists pumping away. Then Mark leant to kiss her, cupping her face with a hand; she was still warm, and so pink from the hot water.

"Oh," she said, eyes closed; "five more weeks can't pass fast enough."

He knew to what she referred: no sex until then. "Feed the baby," he reminded gently. "I'll be back soon."

He tried not to linger too long in the shower, but the hot water felt so good on his aching muscles and running down over his head that he couldn't help himself. They had gotten through William's first week; it had been tiring, but worth every moment. Mark had made hasty plans to take parental leave—to the shock and surprise of everyone in chambers save Jeremy—but aside from a couple of court proceedings that he absolutely had to attend, he had spent all of his time with them.

His new family.

"Hey, Mark?" called Bridget from outside the bath. "Hope you're almost done in there. I can't believe I'm saying this, but, we're going to be late if we don't leave soon."

"Damn," he murmured. He gave himself one last rinse, then turned off the water. "Sorry, darling," he called back, grabbing a fresh, dry towel as he stepped onto the mat, patting himself down then fixing the towel around his waist just as she came in. In addition to feeding William, she had dressed then had towel-dried her hair and pulled it back into a ponytail, all while he'd been under the tap. She smiled at the sight of him.

"No sore eyes here," she said.

"Is he asleep?"

"Mm-hmm," she said. "Started to fall asleep whilst I was changing his nappy. That's pretty impressive."

"Wow," he said. "How long was I in there?"

She chuckled. "A bit longer than usual. I was getting worried. Either that or I'm miraculously faster at putting myself together."

"Motherhood's changed you," he teased.

He shaved as she applied her makeup—nothing much, just some foundation and powder, and a little mascara—but the small mirror, the close quarters in the flat's bathroom, served to remind him how much he wished he could move them to Holland Park. He then went and donned his clothing.

Since William had been a couple of weeks early in coming—when early births were not the norm for her family or his—they were now on their way to attend the baby shower that had been originally scheduled for the day after William came in to the world. They didn't mind the short drive to Magda's. They could both count on her house being childproof, even so long after having babies of her own.

Magda opened the door and came running down the snowy driveway in her flats without even a coat on, before Bridget had even pulled the car seat up and out of the vehicle. It was a miracle she didn't fall and break something. "Let me see him, _let me see him_ ," she said excitedly.

Bridget chuckled. Magda was acting like an addict in need of a fix—as if she hadn't been one of the first visitors after their parents. "Hi, Mags," Bridget said.

"Look at that _perfect_ little face," she cooed, her arm around Bridget's shoulders.

"Hello, Magda," said Mark.

"Mark, I'm sorry, hello," she said repentantly. "I'm just… oh, I miss having a baby around…"

"I hadn't guessed," he said wryly.

Once inside, Bridget handed the baby over to Magda so that she could slip out of her coat with Mark's assistance. As she turned again, she realised her goddaughter was standing there, smiling happily at the sight of the little one.

"Constance, oh my God, you're as tall as me now," Bridget said, then reached to hug her. "Where did the years go? You're so grown up."

"Oh, Aunt Bee." Constance smiled shyly as she stepped back. "I'm only fourteen."

"I remember you when you were like little Billy here."

Mark winced, but was careful not to show it. He was not crazy about calling his son by a diminutive, but Bridget seemed fond of it, and it was such a foolish thing to quibble over that he decided not to say anything. Instead he said to the girl, "So do I—well, almost. Hi, Constance."

"Hi," she said to him. "Almost?"

"You were actually three years old," Bridget supplied.

Mark and Bridget (and the baby) were indeed the last to arrive, and the other guests came out from the sitting room to greet the new arrivals and their baby. Among the attendees were all of the faces he expected to see, and had hoped to see: Sharon, Jude, Tom, and even Giles. If they'd held anything against Mark because of the split with Bridget, all traces of it were gone.

There were also those present he had mixed feelings about seeing. One of them, Woney, spoke up just then. "He's _precious_!" she said. "So when might we expect a little sister or brother for him?"

He swore Bridget would have shot daggers out of her eyes if she could have. Surely Woney had known the difficulties they'd had conceiving—though he did admit to wondering himself if another child might more easily come along.

"Woney," Magda said sternly, lending a voice to their thoughts. "He's only a week old."

"Sorreee," she said, clapping her hands. "I just _love_ babies!"

"You should, you cow," Bridget muttered under her breath to him as they returned to the sitting room. "You've had enough of them." This made him laugh, then kiss the top of her head to hide it.

Fortunately the rest of the afternoon was pleasant and free from annoyance; as wonderful as it had been to spend so much time with Bridget since William's birth, it was nice to enjoy a day out with her in a social setting amongst friends. He chatted with Jude, catching up with the trials and tribulations of her own life; Sharon alternately made him breathless with laughter and infuriated him; Tom settled on light flirting. He would have expected no less from any of them. It felt like a sort of homecoming.

It wasn't until the ride back that he learnt how they'd dodged a bullet in not having to play ridiculous baby shower-related party games. "I know _why_ she invited Woney and Cosmo," Bridget confided as they drove back to the flat, "but honestly, that comment about a sibling…"

"I know."

"I thought I might snap my stitches, I was so annoyed."

At this comment he laughed aloud—so loud, in fact, that he startled and woke the baby, who began to cry. Immediately contrite, he said, "I'm sorry, darling."

She gave the baby a dummy, and tucked the little velveteen rabbit from Pam next to him in the car seat. William immediately calmed. "You didn't mean it," she said, "and he's fine. Don't worry about it." After a pause, she added, "I always want to hear you laughing."

The evening to follow was a fairly peaceful one; William was good enough to stay sleeping while they rested and cuddled on the sofa. He took the liberty of nuzzling into the nape of her neck and throat, placing tender kisses there. He'd half-expected her to chastise him for being a tease when they couldn't have sex so soon after the baby, but she simply closed her eyes and, with a lazy smile playing on her lips, enjoyed the attention he lavished upon her.

"I'm going to admit defeat," she said with a sigh. He stopped, raised his eyes to meet hers. She was still smiling. "I'm beginning to see your point."

"About what?"

"This flat versus your house."

"Ah," Mark said.

"Wish it were possible to snap fingers and relocate everything there."

"Could do the next best thing," he said.

"Oh?"

"Pay someone to pack it all up and move it."

She raised a brow. "Hmm," she said. "All of it?"

"Would you leave something behind?"

"I just don't think I could handle someone else in my pants drawer."

He chuckled. "I daresay you could pack up your own pants."

"True." She shifted, then rested against his shoulder. "I'd be mortified if a stranger ran across, say, my bunny tail."

"You don't know where it is?"

"I have an idea, but…"

"We'll just have to pack that bit up ourselves, and—"

He stopped at the feel of her fingers combing through his hair tenderly. "—And I'll model it for you as soon as I'm able," she said. Then she placed a kiss on the underside of his chin, caressing his face. His eyes closed. Utter bliss. She then placed a tender kiss on his lips before sighing. He knew why; he was feeling much the same. As much as they loved their new child, a single additional night together before William came didn't seem nearly enough.

"I know we can't…" she began quietly. "But…"

He smiled, then brushed his fingers along her cheek, to her throat. "We _could_ do what we can," he said.

"That seems a bit… cruel," she said, slightly horrified.

He laughed lightly. "Don't think about that," he said. He brushed her hair away from her face. "Just… let me kiss you, all right?"

She smiled, leaned forward and placed her lips on his. He took her in his arms, proceeding to thoroughly kiss her, moving from her lips to her neck and throat, tracing his hands over her body in a tender caress.

 **Christmas Eve**

No longer pregnant, no longer single, and that bloody tree was finally going to be decorated. She felt exceptionally fortunate. She sat on her favourite spot on the sofa with William—or, as she was starting to think of him, little Billy—as she watched Mark untangle a line of fairy lights that he'd found while helping to sort out her things.

"It seems a bit silly to get things all decorated for a day or so," he'd said. At her expression, though, he'd added, "But I'll do it if you really want me to."

"It's his first Christmas, Mark," she'd said in response. "Of course I want you to."

She could tell he wanted to remind her that there was no way he'd remember his first Christmas, but he bit back a response and started decorating the tree for them.

She could tell the fairy lights were really starting to get to him, a man who ordinarily possessed vast reserves of patience. "Do you want me to unsnag those?"

"I'll get it," he said. He also possessed about as much stubbornness as she had. "Ah," he said. "Triumphant at last." He then turned to hang them around the tree.

"My hero," she said, looking unrepentantly at his backside as he turned back to her. His own gaze focused on her and on the baby, his eyes softening in expression.

"My pleasure," he said. After a moment, he added, "You look angelic."

"Ha, ha."

"No, I'm serious," he said. "The glow of the lights and the fire… babe in arms…"

She smiled but was not sure exactly what to say. He had left her speechless. He came near and sat beside them, stroking William's fine hair, then her cheek.

"Picture perfect."

"Hardly," said Bridget.

"You're too modest." He leaned to give her a kiss. "Now," he said, "What would you like next: garland? Ornaments?"

"I'll live a little," she said. "Whichever you prefer."

He rose again, looked at them, and then did something unexpected: he reached in his pocket for his mobile, flicked it on with a thumb, and then snapped a picture of them.

"Oh, God, tell me you didn't just do that. I'm a wreck."

"I said picture perfect, and I meant it," he said, giving her a stern look. "Don't question my motives in wanting a gorgeous moment captured forever." Then he winked, and smiled. "It's not like I'm going to share it with the world. I wanted it for me." He looked a moment more, then said, as he put the mobile down, "Besides, you're wrong. You look lovely."

She was doubtful that she actually did, but decided to let the matter slide, saying in a chastened tone, "Thank you, Mark."

"Now," he said. "I think I shall start with the garland."

He draped the shiny silver ribbon garland around the tree, to the boughs that he could reach on the front of the tree. Bridget suggested that it was pointless trying to get around to the back as no one would see it, anyway, and Mark had to agree, albeit grudgingly, given his perfectionist nature.

After that, the ornaments went on; he clearly had little experience with tree trimming, putting them on in clumps with no regards for colour distribution. "Mark," she said. "Try mixing it up a bit." She set the baby in his seat, then pushed herself upright with a groan of pain to join him at the tree. "Here, this can go here," she said, plucking a tiny gold star and placing it in an empty area. "And this one—" An obviously homemade craft angel. "—can move down here."

"I have done this before," he said staidly. "I'm just not used to… so much variety in the ornaments."

She thought of the Holland Park home with its white walls, the white décor, the stainless steel kitchen, and thought he was probably not exaggerating. "You're doing great," she said encouragingly.

The remainder of the ornaments went on to the tree in a very mixed-up fashion, indeed. After the last one went on, after he plugged in the lights, he stood back, hands on his hips, regarding his work with a sense of pride.

"Very festive," she said. "That is what you should be taking photos of."

"Oh. Great idea." He reached again into his pocket and snapped a few shots of the lit tree. "My mother will love this."

"So will mine," she said. She reached out for her own mobile. "Stand by the tree, will you?"

He did as requested, but asked, "You're not going to Twitter that, are you?"

She giggled. "Tweet," she corrected, snapping the shot. "And perhaps."

His expression went stern again, so of course she snapped another.

 **Late January**

"Date: box ticked."

He said this as she descended the stairs, and she laughed, remembering his comment from shortly after the baby's birth. She looked radiant, gorgeous in a dark blue dress, hair pinned up over her ears and tumbling over her shoulders in loose curls. She'd done something nice with her makeup, smoky grey eyes and liner, with pale pink lipstick. And there, around her neck, was her favourite necklace, the silver floating heart on a delicate chain; he'd gotten so used to it on her that she'd look wrong without it.

"After ticking the baby, cohabitating, and engagement boxes," she said. She reached the foyer, stepped closer, then looked up to meet his eye. "Do I look all right?"

He would have thought that they way he'd looked at her had said it all, but he was more than willing to reassure her. "Better than all right," he said. "Absolutely stunning."

She beamed a smile. "You're looking very handsome, too," she said. She placed her hand on him, as if to smooth down his lapel. Only then did he realise her perfume was the warm vanilla rose combination she seemed so very fond of. "Very." She cleared her throat. "Little Billy all settled in? Magda's set up?"

"Yes," he said. "With three children under her belt, I think she's more than capable of handling whatever a newborn throws her way. Are you ready to go?"

"Just need my coat," she said. "Well, and need to say goodbye to Billy and Magda. Where are they?"

"She's in the sitting room watching telly while Bil—William sleeps," he said, realising that he had slowly been assimilated into calling the baby by the diminutive he had sworn not to use; he was more amused than anything, and by her expression, so was she. "Let's go say goodbye and we can get to our reservation."

Magda was just as Mark had said; she was on the sofa, the baby in his little newborn lounger, with—of all things—Pingu on the television. "I was feeling a bit nostalgic," Magda explained, rising to her feet. "Oh, Bee, you look _smashing_."

"I think so too," Mark murmured as the friends hugged.

"Have a great time tonight," Magda said, pulling away. "And don't you worry a moment about this angel. He's the best-behaved baby I've ever known."

"Must take after his daddy," joked Bridget.

"We won't be too late," said Mark.

After a quick kiss each to the baby's forehead, they slipped into their coats and were off to the car. He had more than once patted his jacket pocket, ensuring what was in there hadn't magically run off on its own. It had not.

"Where are we going?"

He demurred. "Let's leave it a surprise," he said.

In actual fact it was the first restaurant to which he'd ever taken her, in a manner of speaking. It was still a restaurant, and still served Italian cuisine, but the name had changed in the interim. The food, he was assured through word of mouth, was still incredibly good. So he'd booked a table.

When she saw the place, she recognised it for what it was, too, and smiled, then laughed lightly. "I sure do hope they serve that amazing tiramisu."

The staff were extremely kind and attentive, possibly in part due to what he'd told them when booking the table: that she'd just become a new mum, that they were celebrating moving in together, and were planning to get married. They brought mozzarella tartlet starters (which made her smile and comment that her mother would love them) and champagne.

"But I'm still breastfeeding," she said to him in a hushed voice.

"One or two glasses will be fine," he said as the sommelier poured from the bottle. "I checked."

She reached across the table and took his hand. "Clever you," she said. "One of the many reasons I love you." Then she took and raised her glass. "To us, and to our new life as a family."

"Hear, hear," he murmured. They touched their glasses with a muted clink, then each took a long drink from their respective flute.

Dinner was a delectable manicotti dish; Mark had wine while Bridget stuck to sparkling water with lemon. He couldn't stop looking at her; how radiant she looked in the glow of the candle; how the light danced in her eyes when she smiled back to him with a light blush touching her cheek.

Mark was pleased to find that they did, in fact, offer a tiramisu on their dessert menu, so he felt very confident in ordering one for each of them, as well as a demitasse of decaffeinated espresso. When they brought the dish her eyes lit up with utter delight. One taste and she sighed with pleasure.

"Just as good as I remembered."

The time seemed right to give her what he'd brought, while she was distracted by her gustatory delight. He reached into his pocket, opened the box, and drew out what he had for her. He reached across with his right hand to take her left; it had no discernible effect on her enjoyment of the dessert.

"By the way," he said with as much nonchalance as he could muster, "when I was cleaning up in preparation of you and William moving in, I found something of yours I thought you might want back."

"Oh?"

"Mm, yes," he said.

He then quickly and deftly slipped the ring he held in his own left hand onto her left wedding finger. She gasped audibly. It was the ring he had given her once before, one that she had loved but had returned to him when they had split; a thin white gold band, a small but intricately cut blue topaz gem at its centre. She had never wanted a diamond, anyway, and he thought pairing the stone to her eyes had been a stroke of genius.

"I thought it was going to be that old corset thing of mine or a pair of lacy pants," she said with a laugh; she sniffed, then wiped away a tear from under her eye.

"Give me a little credit," he said.

She splayed her hand, admiring the ring, dessert and espresso all but forgotten, which was an impressive feat. "Oh, I've _missed_ this ring." She then looked to him, an expression of sorrow passing over her face. "I'm so sorry I ever gave it back."

"Never mind that, darling," he said, holding out his hand to her again. "Everything's on the right track now."

At this she brightened up with another smile. "That's true."

"I have to admit I was a little worried," he began.

"That I wouldn't take it back?"

"That you might think it uncouth that I gave the same ring to you," he explained, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

She made a dismissive sound. "I think you know me better than that."

"That's why I said 'a little'," he said.

She placed her other hand atop his. "I've learnt a lot of hard lessons while we were apart, Mark," she said fervently. "We may not see eye to eye on everything, but that's not what's important. You love me. I can trust you with anything and everything. And I never want any misunderstandings to come between us again."

Her impromptu declaration left him feeling quite emotional. "We definitely see eye to eye on this," he said at last, lifting her hand to place a kiss on the back of it. He had learnt hard lessons, too; he would work diligently to never repeat the mistakes he'd made with her. "But now, I think we have a dessert to demolish."

This quip served to lighten the mood, and she chuckled. "Indeed we do."

They finished dessert, and as their server cleared the plates away Mark realised he was, but wasn't, ready to go home. He didn't have any pressing need to make sure that the baby was all right—he knew Magda had everything well in hand—but he wanted very much to take her off to bed and demonstrate again how much he loved her, wanted her, and missed the intimacy they'd all too briefly rekindled. On the other hand, he was enjoying the time away from the house, being out on a date, and didn't quite want it to end yet.

And then he had a brainwave.

Once outside, since the evening was quite warm, he suggested they have a stroll along the Thames; she agreed. They walked together, coming closer to Borough Market, and only then did she seem to realise they were upon the doorstep of her old building. She looked confused, but amused. "What are we doing here?"

He didn't say anything, just smiled a little, before he drew out his time-worn Newcastle United key fob and opened the door.

For all intents and purposes, she had moved out of her old flat and it had been cleaned professionally in advance of listing it with an estate agent, but there was certainly enough still in the flat to keep them comfortable for a few hours.

He was about to tell her what his plans were, but it seemed unnecessary once they were inside. She slipped out of the coat, then pulled the Kirby grips out of her hair, combing her fingers through her tresses, which fell along her shoulders prettily. "I assume you're staying?" she asked teasingly, reminding him that he was still wearing his coat.

After doffing his own coat, he reached forward and took her hand, walking with her back to the bedroom. He took great pleasure in undoing the buttons on the front of her dress, of slipping it from her, just as she seemed to take in unbuttoning his shirt and trousers.

Once the rest of their clothing was shed, he took her into his arms, held her close, and kissed her; he ran his hands reverently over her skin in tender caresses. Making love with her had been a pleasure long denied; denied for excellent reasons, though denied all the same. His eagerness was evident every step of the way, from that first kiss to the final culmination.

Only afterwards did she comment on how thoughtful it had been of him to carefully drape their clothing over the chair in there, so that they would not be irredeemably dishevelled afterwards. "Though the sheets are a bit of a different story," she added, tightening her arms around him. "Not that I'm complaining."

He placed a kiss in the middle of her forehead, then rested his cheek against the pillow with a sigh. "We should think about heading home," he said.

She sighed too. "I suppose," she said.

"It doesn't mean we can't have a long bath once we're home, though," he said. "The miracle of baby monitoring devices."

"Oooh, now that does sound nice," she said.

They put themselves together, lovingly buttoning each other up. He held the Kirby grips for her while she fixed her hair again. "I'm not sure why it matters," he said.

"I'd prefer not to be teased by Magda."

"She's going to know anyway," he said. "It's going to be obvious."

Bridget's hands fell to her side, with only one side pinned up. "You're probably right."

"That's cute," he said. "Leave it like that."

She pursed her lips, but moved away from the mirror. "If you insist," she said.

As it turned out, Magda only noticed one thing: the return of the ring to Bridget's finger. "You're engaged again!" she shrieked, hugging her friend. "I mean officially!"

"Yes," Bridget said with a laugh.

"Not that I doubted you," Magda said. "I'm just so, _so_ happy to see you back together."

Mark slipped an arm around Bridget's shoulder, then pulled her to him to peck a kiss to her temple. "I'm pretty happy about it too," he said. "And how's William?"

"Sleeping now," she said. "He fussed a little earlier, I gave him a bottle, changed a nappy. He was wonderfully behaved."

"I'm so glad he wasn't a bother," said Bridget.

"Not a bother at all."

They said their goodbyes and Mark saw her to the door, closing and locking it after her. Then he looked to Bridget. "Let's say goodnight to William—to Billy—then let's carry on as planned."

She smiled, knowing what it meant for him to call the baby "Billy."

"Yes," she said. "Let's."

 _The end._


End file.
